


facets, revolving

by telluricflight



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, john and sherlock fit together like two halves of a whole, john has sherlock's back, john makes sherlock a better person, mycroft is omnipresent, sherlock gives john purpose and excitement, they are just perfect together okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-02
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-09 01:13:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telluricflight/pseuds/telluricflight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson's life with Sherlock Holmes.</p>
<p>There are good days, and there are bad days, but on the whole John thinks that it's worth it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	facets, revolving

“When you walk with Sherlock Holmes,” Mycroft had told him, “You see the battlefield.”

\--

His legs pound the ground, working to keep up with Sherlock's lengthy stride. Cold air sears his sinuses, a counterpoint to the burn and stretch of deoxygenated muscles.

The case had involved a burglary-turned-murder; normally too dull for Sherlock, but the measures the murderer had taken to avoid the police, in one instance involving a bowling pin and three separate nightclubs, had rated an 8. Within a day, Sherlock had blocked off the man's three escape routes, which had eventually led to this, another mad chase across London.

The metal is warm under his right palm, body temperature, his grip firm on the Browning. A cornered man is the most dangerous, and Morrison has shown that he has nothing to lose.

Sherlock vaults a fence, and John is only halfway across when he hears the detective's surprised shout. Cursing, he drops to the ground and starts running towards the two figures grappling with each other.

A flash of metal, cold and sharp, in Morrison's hand.

John doesn't even hesitate before raising his steady hands and aiming down the sights.

\--

"Hurry up and wait," his arms instructor had once called it. It was the fourth most useful thing John learned in the army.

\--

Their last case had been nearly two weeks ago, and Mrs Hudson is starting to complain about the amount of broken crockery, in addition to the wall. John thinks to himself that they either have the most patient neighbours in the history of mankind, or the turnover rate on Baker Street is higher than he knows.

Alternatively, it's Mycroft’s doing.

By now, Sherlock has descended into deep silence, not moving from where he had first sprawled out in his dressing gown on the sofa two days ago. Cajoling and threatening alike have failed to shake him out of his black mood, so John resigns himself to leaving mugs of tea and plates of biscuits on the table and checking from time to time that he hasn’t spontaneously stopped breathing.

In times like these, John catches himself wishing for someone to die an interesting death already. Now is one such time, and he spends his shift at the clinic wondering when the well-being of his flatmate started to supersede a random stranger's life.

He realises that he lost that battle the moment he saw the blip of Jennifer Wilson's phone on his computer screen, moving away from Baker Street.

\--

John stares at Ella. Ella stares at John. Her pen makes a soft tap-tapping noise on the notebook in her lap.

“Surely there must be something that has happened recently that doesn't involve your flatmate. Your work? Old friends?”

The only old friend John has met since returning from Afghanistan is Mike Stamford, two weeks ago. Since then, he has killed a man for Sherlock, ran around London three times, visited the Met seven times, and gone for two job interviews. Sherlock had burst in before the second one had even begun to drag him away on a stakeout at a Thai restaurant, where as things turned out, the owner's partner was running a small drug ring through the restaurant's delivery service.

What he has not done since then is dream of sand and dust and gunfire and soldiers young enough to be fresh out of college bleeding out into his hands every single night. His pistol sees more use than his cane, these days.

In the end, everything comes down to one person, one name that Ella had spent the previous session listening to John expound on, and that she had promptly tabooed at the start of the current one.

Not that John is trying very hard. His therapist now angles her notes so he can't look directly at them, but if he sits leaning back just a little and tilts his head, the words  _dangerous preoccupation_  and  _worryingly rapid attachment_  can be read in reverse from the mirror behind her desk.

He doesn't schedule another appointment afterwards. Already, he is starting to hate it when Mycroft Holmes is correct.

\--

so hows your flatmate in bed?? you lucky devil, you!

For the last time, Sherlock and I aren't together!

please, you were practically swooning over him in your blog

You do remember that I'm straight, don't you, Harry?

that picture youve got of him on yur blog, evn id turn straighttt for tht face

Are you drinking again?

Harry?

I'm coming over.

pissss of john

\--

“Triple murder, this one.” Lestrade's face is grim as he leads them through to the crime scene. John barely even breaks stride as he ducks under the police tape Sherlock holds up for him. “We're still running identification checks on them, but it's a bit hard; the murderer only left a few pieces of their bodies each.”

Sherlock's face is that of a child who got an actual, live pony for Christmas, and only brightens when they reach the gory remains.

John looks at the way the parts are arranged to form a complete body, but for a while, all he can see is the aftermath of a roadside IED, limbs torn off and scattered with explosive force.

“John.” Sherlock's voice jolts him out of Afghanistan and back into London, and he instantly sinks to the ground next to his flatmate and the corpses, furious with himself. Absorbing himself in a thorough examination of the dismembered arm, he misses the long look Sherlock gives him.

“Well, three men, middle-aged; they were dead before the murderer cut them up. Probably nine hours since, maybe ten.” He tilts the torso slightly. “No visible cause of death- seems the murderer chose the undamaged parts of his victims.”

Sherlock interjects. “What type of blade would you say was used?”

“Definitely not a medical saw, the bone doesn't break cleanly enough. In fact, it looks as though the bone was hacked through, not sawed, so it'd have to be a fairly sturdy blade.”

Sherlock nods, satisfied. Lestrade just looks vaguely nauseous.

“Murderer is a man, in his late twenties, works as a carpenter in a shipyard.” The detective discards his rubber gloves and sweeps away dramatically, leaving both John and Lestrade to hurry after him. “The body is a message, that much is clear, but why not leave all three bodies? Why would he bother disposing of only some parts of his victims?”

“The same reason he's playing jigsaw with them?” John hazards a guess. “It must have taken some effort to- Sherlock?”

“Oh!” His lips part minutely, and he stops mid-stride, as though devoting every fibre of his being to catching up with his quicksilver thoughts. “Of course!”

“Sherlock?”

“Chimeras, John!” With that cryptic statement, he rushes off, and John barely has time to throw an apology over his shoulder to a confused and irate Lestrade before he is running, caught in the wake of Sherlock's brilliance.

\--

John thinks he does a good job of holding it all in until they leave Scotland Yard and enter 221B.

“ _What_  the  _bloody hell_  was that about, Sherlock?”

The detective stares at him, hands caught mid-gesture. John hardly ever interrupts Sherlock’s explanations. “…You’re angry at me.”

“I thought you didn’t like stating the obvious?” John snaps back at him, and storms into the kitchen. A mug of tea will help him deal with this- “Oh for- Sherlock,  _what did you do with the milk this time?_ ”

“Experiment.” Sherlock says, and usually John is fine with being the sole focus of clear grey eyes, with feeling like a specimen of microbe under a microscope lens, but for some reason it does nothing but  _piss him off_  now.

“ _Again?_  We’ve been through six cartons of milk within the last week!” He slams the fridge door. “What kind of experiment could possibly need more milk than we consume in a whole month?”

“You’re not upset about the milk, you’re upset about the case.” Sherlock’s hands meet in his thinking pose, and his eyes narrow. “Specifically, you’re upset about me leaving you behind.”

“You knew Cunningham was armed, Sherlock. Did it not occur to you that when chasing after a man with a gun, you should take precautions?”

A hand waves his concerns away. “Cunningham was scared. He didn’t have the nerve to shoot anybody.”

“He  _pointed a gun at you and pulled the trigger_.”

“He missed. Shaky trigger finger, he probably didn’t intend to actually shoot.”

“Whether he intended to or not would have been irrelevant if  _you had a bullet inside you!_ ” John bellows.

“Any injury to myself is beside the point. I’ve told you before, John, it is nothing more than transport. Cunningham was arrested, the case was solved, and that is all that matters.” He turns towards the windows and picks up his violin. “I realise it is hard for your inferior mind, but do try not to make me repeat unnecessary facts.”

The screeching starts. John stands still for a moment, fuming, before grabbing his jacket and marching to the door.

“Better ask Sarah for extra pillows; the lilo always leaves you so uncomfortably stiff.” Sherlock calls over the tortured sounds he is pulling from the strings.

John makes certain to slam the door especially loudly.

\--

“-so obviously, his wife wasn’t the murderer, which you’d know if you looked at the state of his shirt and the stain on his cufflinks.”

“That’s brilliant!”

Sherlock blinks and looks at John. “Was it?”

“Yes, it was.” John’s voice is warm with sincerity. “And you got all that from just his attire.”

The left side of Sherlock’s lip twitches, and he continues telling Lestrade exactly why the case is a waste of his time.

\--

They tumble out of the cab and through the door, John only pausing long enough to pay the irritated cabbie. The warm light that Mrs Hudson leaves on in the entrance is bright in comparison to the night outside, and one look at Sherlock, wet coat and all, is enough to set him off in another fit of giggles.

“I- I can’t believe,” He gasps out, “That you  _fell_  into the Thames.”

“And you jumped in right after, thinking that I decided a midnight swim was the best way to catch the serial killer’s brother.” Sherlock is laughing too, and they both manage to climb the stairs by leaning against each other in hysterics.

“Did you see that cabbie’s face, though?” John flops boneless onto the sofa, and is prodded aside by Sherlock’s bony elbows as he follows. “I swear if it wasn’t for Greg, he wouldn’t have taken us.”

“We  _were_  bringing in half the Thames with us, after all.” Sherlock points out. “His clothes and the general state of the cab made it clear that he cleans compulsively; us dripping all over the seats just after he deep-cleaned them yesterday will have guaranteed he will spend tomorrow morning repeating the process and cursing our names.”

“And to think, this is after washing off the garbage from when we jumped into that skip. He should be grateful.” John deadpans, and they start laughing again, breath coming in short gasps.

They lie there awhile, wet clothes drying from their combined body heat where Sherlock’s right arm is draping over John’s left leg, and John’s left shoulder is jammed against Sherlock’s right side. The only sounds in the room are from their breathing.

“Shouldn’t have wet the sofa, Mrs Hudson will kill us for ruining the leather.” John eventually says, but neither of them makes an effort to move, either to dry off or to get ready for bed. With the thrill of the chase and the glowing warmth of success still running through his veins, John doubts he would be able to sleep anyway.

He tilts his head slightly, and his eyes take in Sherlock’s face, the way his cheeks are flushed and his eyes are bright, the half-formed smile that curves his mouth, and he thinks, in a half-realisation that he has always known,  _this man is insane and I love him for it_.

A smile of his own pulls at his face, gentler but no less genuine.

\--

“I  _do_  have a phone, you know.” John informs a seated and smirking Mycroft as he enters the sleek black car. “One that actually works, hard as that may be to believe.”

“My brother’s brusque manner seems to have rubbed off onto you, Doctor Watson.” Eyes eerily similar to Sherlock’s sweep him once over. “I see you did not spend the night at Sarah Sawyer’s place, despite your clear disgruntlement with Sherlock. Tell me, how is he?”

_Hyperactive. Conducting the most appalling experiments possible and torturing the violin every single night at three, but watching me closely whenever he thinks I’m not looking._

“He’s been restless after Moriarty’s puzzles,” He says out loud. “He needs a distraction, and I’m not sure it’ll be safe or clean.”

“I see.” Mycroft continues to eye him appraisingly. “And what of yourself, Doctor? After such…  _drastic_  measures as Moriarty took, it would not be unexpected for you to be reconsidering your living arrangements.”

John remains silent, and Mycroft continues. “You declined previously, but I would still be willing to reimburse you for your continued presence in my brother’s life. He may not show it, but he values you, and I am sure a suitable monetary amount that reflects this can be arranged to be deposited into your bank account every month or so.”

A pause.

“You can take your bribes and piss off, Mycroft.” John tells him mildly. “I’m a grown man, I think I can decide for myself whether I want to stay or not.”

The elder Holmes gapes at him. Granted, on his face it is more of a blink followed by an uncomfortably long stare, but John knows the Holmes brothers well enough by now to translate to normal.

John’s phone beeps three times in quick succession, and he gladly looks away from Mycroft’s scarily intent face to read his texts.

Mycroft slipped on his diet two days ago. SH

Get milk on your way back. SH

And a pint of pig blood. SH

“Do you know, I believe this is the longest Sherlock has ever lived with anyone who is not family.” The car pulls up outside a Tesco’s; John doesn’t even blink at this pre-emption of his needs. “His habits make him a difficult flatmate to live with, don’t they?”

“People living with each other piss each other off all the time, it’s normal.” John points out. “And according to my uni mates, living with me is no walk in the park either, so it’s a good thing the two worst people to live with in the whole of London happen to share a flat; nobody else would put up with us.”

“Yes,” Mycroft murmurs as he slides out of the car and ends the conversation. “A good thing.”

\--

In a life where days form a spectrum of _best day of my life_ to _fuck this shit_ , today has the tone of _why did I even get up in the first place?_

His patients had totalled three hypochondriacs and a sudden influx of children with the cold, one of whom had been sick all over his shoes. And this is not counting before the day had even begun; he had screamed himself awake at four in the morning, shoulder burning and leg tense. It didn't help that Sherlock had used the kettle to hold his experiment on decaying noses, and the tea he had bought on the way to work was little more than flavoured hot water in a paper cup that shook in the grip of his left hand.

By the time he limps out of Baker Street station, all he wants is to curl up in his chair with a steaming mug of tea and to simply  _not do anything_ until his next shift two days later.

Sherlock is in the kitchen when he reaches 221B, peering into his microscope. Their kettle is on the table next to him, still full of decomposing bits.

John bites back a sound that is most definitely not a whimper, and drops into his chair.

His head tilts back into the cushions, and he closes his eyes, just savouring the soft support under his shoulder and the way he sinks into the seat. He still needs to wash up, his vomit-splattered shoes- hurriedly cleaned with water and toilet paper between patients- need scrubbing, and he is willing to commit homicide for a decent mug of tea; but now that he is no longer standing he wants to stay exactly where he is for just a minute, just a minute more.

John doesn't know how long he sits there, silently staring at the back of his eyelids, but he is roused by the smooth heat of ceramic that is settled firmly into his limp hand.

Blink. Blink blink.

He stares dumbly at the steaming mug of tea for a full ten seconds before it occurs to him to take a sip. Milk, no sugar, brewed to exactly the strength he likes.

"Ridiculous." Sherlock flops into his chair opposite John, laptop in hand. "Multitudes of idiots asking for help with their boring, mundane problems. Listen to this one, John- stolen jewellery; she thinks it's a burglar even though it's obvious that her husband is secretly selling them to be able to support his two mistresses-"

The last of the tension dissipates. John settles back with his tea and lets Sherlock's low voice flow over him.

(He only learns the next morning that Sherlock had taken Mrs Hudson's kettle and neglected to return it. While their landlady berates an impenitent consulting detective, John grins and adds a new kettle to his shopping list.)

**Author's Note:**

> Mycroft sounds a little off to me, and there's more aspects of their lives that I want to delve into, but if I sit on this any longer it will start growing fungi.
> 
> Mostly to work out as much as I can about how John fits with Sherlock and his mentality about it, especially regarding the times when it's not all giggling at crime scenes. Can be platonic or romantic, open to interpretation. Not britpicked or beta-ed; concrit welcomed.


End file.
